Forty Nine
by scrambled-eggs-at-midnight
Summary: Mello's rosary has forty-nine beads, and even though he doesn't have much, he has this. He'll always have this. For Cameron Kennedy.


**A/N: Written for Cameron Kennedy, my amazingly wonderful fanfiction wife. Darling, I know I told you this wasn't angsty... but I was wrong. It's incredibly angsty. XD Woops. It was also written with nothing particular in mind other than that I thought you'd enjoy it. Rather shorter than I would have liked, but ah well. I love you!**

**To the rest of you, go check out the fic CK wrote for me called "The Last Midnight." Unlike me, Cameron managed to make it actually relevant to the occasion she was writing for. Go read it now!**

**If you're offended by anything having to do with religious themes, this fic may not be for you. Please consult your conscience before proceeding. Thank you.**

**Also, for anyone who notices, this is not actually the way the rosary is prayed. It's normally a heckuva lot more complicated, but I had to simplify for the purposes of story. Thanks for your understanding. (And yes, I actually did count all the beads on my rosary for the purpose of this fic. :3)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note, and I certainly don't own the prayer Mello's saying. Just in case, you know, anyone actually had those delusions.**

Mello's rosary has forty-nine beads.

He counts them each night before sleeps. Round and round the rope he goes, fingers gliding over the little wooden prayers as he whispers the words he's known since childhood.

_(Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee)_

Beads number one through ten are the people he's killed. Murdered. Slaughtered. It's a very morbid subject to start out with, he thinks, but Mello has always been a bit of a masochist. He lists them in his head as he recites, ticking them off one by one on his fingers, each name and face and crime committed. It isn't hard. He's always been good at remembering people anyway. It helps that he sees them every night in his dreams, too. They lick at his mind like flames that ate away at the whole left half of his face, flickering and dying, begging for mercy each time he relives their deaths. He tells them he's sorry every time, but they never believe him, their woeful eyes swallow threatening to suck him with them into the abyss and drown him in the pain he caused them.

_(Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus)_

Eleven through twenty belong to his family, lost to a world that has long since forgotten them. Wammy's house never managed to succeed in erasing the memory of what he used to have, and Mello's breath always hitches a little when he reaches the little sister he cherished and adored, holds her little face in his hands and tucks a flower behind her ear.

Her name was Cecile, and she had a smile that reminds him of sunshine and bluebirds. Each time, he has to stay his fingers for the briefest moment to wipe the tears that flow from his eyes, uncalled and unasked for when his mother strokes her cool hand across the scars on his face. They never linger long, but Mello can see them every night, sitting by him on the bed as he goes through the motions of prayer with them, just like he did so many years ago.

_(Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners)_

The next ten prayers, twenty-one to thirty, are whispered for the boys who wear their hair too long, dressed leather and regret, lying to help them sell their souls for a cause that they don't even know if they believe in. They're the boys who wander the streets with their hearts closed and their eyes open, always hoping for someone or something that can take them away from the hell that they've fallen into.

_(Now and at the hour of our death)_

When Mello reaches beads thirty-one through forty-one, he always has to stop. Each whispered word is for the ones who died serving justice, like L and Wammy and all the innocent people whose lives were whipped out from under them like a cloth off a table, sometimes by Mello's own hand, sending the glasses and plates crashing and falling to the floor. The pieces ricochet off of his hands and arms and face, cutting him open to remind him that he's next, he'll always be next, no matter how hard he tries to be first. He always groups Matt in there, too, because even though he's not dead yet he will be soon. And God, how he hates it, but it's Mello's fault, always Mello's fault, and Matt deserves something from him, even if all he has to give are broken smiles and fumbling words in the darkness.

Mello's last eight prayers are nothing more than a plea to God, begging for forgiveness he knows he'll never get. He thinks of what will happen to him when he dies, and sometimes his throat contracts and he can't stop the shuddering sobs that wrack through his body and escape from between his lips when he remembers every tiny, inescapable detail the priest ever told him about Hell and its fires.

Sometimes, he asks dryly if the devil is waiting for him at the other side.

Mello's closing prayer tells a story, too. It is his thanks for the safety he is allowed to steal from the weight of those forty nine little beads and the crucifix he feels between his fingers. _Glory be to the Father, _he says, _and to the Son, _because Mello knows that it has to go to someone and it sure as hell can't be him._ As it was in the beginning _is how it _is now and ever shall be, _in this brilliant, beautiful, cold _world without end. __Amen__._

Mello lies down, closes his eyes, and falls asleep with his forty-nine prayers clutched in his hands. He doesn't have much, but he has this. He'll always have this.

_(Amen.)_


End file.
